


Eliot Spencer shot, oh no!

by Purple_Scorpi0



Category: Leverage
Genre: Gen, Hurt!Eliot, Hurt/Comfort, LATER, WWP, Whump, Whump Without Plot, collapse, might get a plot, no promises, original character/self-insert kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 12:04:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12189657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purple_Scorpi0/pseuds/Purple_Scorpi0
Summary: Hi! I'm new here and this is my first Fanfic story woot!So...Eliot and Hardison are doing their thing, but men with guns find them, and Eliot gets shot. Honestly this is just self-serving whump because I like when Eliot bleeds, as long as he has someone to take care of him. Also, this is the extent of my medical knowledge, gleaned from internet sources, so any mistakes are mine.I don't own the Leverage characters or series or anything, I just like to hurt them a little bit. As of now this is it, but it could be continued, perhaps if a wild comment or two pops up?





	Eliot Spencer shot, oh no!

Eliot prowled the server room, his sharp eyes scanning the blue-saturated space constantly for security guards or mob grunts. Or both. “Come on, man,” he growled, “Why couldn’t Parker have done this? At least she’s not afraid to tase someone.”

  
Hardison spared a second from his computer screen to glare at Eliot. “Will you be quiet and let me work? Parker couldn’t have written a specialized strip-program and sophisticated virus like this on the fly. I didn’t know I’d have to do this.” He worked for a moment more before he muttered, “I could tase someone if I had to.”

Eliot snorted. “Sure, the guy who gets weak at the sight of a bruise. Do you know what tasers do to people, Hardison?”

“I try not to think about it.” Hardison plucked the USB drive out of the computer and pocketed it. “Got the files, now for my little present.” He bent back over the computer, fingers flying.

Eliot wasn’t paying attention. He heard six pairs of combat boots coming towards their little hiding spot. “We gotta move.”

“Not yet. This thing is gonna be nasty. Age of the geek, b-”

“Hush,” Eliot snapped, “and keep your head down. Six former military coming around that corner. I’ll stall ‘em, but you better be ready to run in five seconds.” Eliot crept to the wall and pressed his back against it, fists clenched, breathing steady. He would have let all of them come around the corner before he launched his attack, but they would see Hardison, so as the first goon stepped around the corner, Eliot’s fist shot out, connecting with the side of his — admittedly very hard — head. Number one down. Eliot dropped into a crouch as number two tried to surprise him with a blind chop around the corner. He snapped his foot out, breaking that one’s knee like a brittle branch, and caught him with an elbow to the head as he fell. The third one was more of a challenge without Eliot’s element of surprise. He met and matched the hitter, trading blows pretty evenly until Eliot backed him up into number four, who tripped him up trying to get at Eliot in the tight space. They both went down with satisfying thuds.

Then Eliot heard a click, and whipped around to see one of the remaining mercenaries aiming a 9-mil at Hardison, and the other one aiming a rifle at him. This was going to hurt. Eliot lunged for the goon aiming at the hacker, put himself in the firing line, and ripped the gun out of his hands just as it, and the rifle, went off. He barely registered the burning pain in his left side or across his back as he hit mercenary number five over the head with the gun, then kicked out, knocked the rifle out of the last one’s hands, and took him down. After he was sure the sixth guy was out cold, he sat back on his heels, finally allowing himself to process the pain. A line of raw fire was etched across his back, and the bullet wound had his insides feeling a little loose, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. He spat a mouthful of blood from a split cheek, and bile from his stomach rebelling against the shock of the bullet, then drew his knife. He cut the shirts off of the unconscious goons, and folded them up into temporary pressure bandages.

“Dude…” Eliot turned to see Hardison staring at him, his bag of tech clutched close. “Th-that’s a lot of blood.”

Eliot looked down at the hole in his side — it was only a little deeper than a graze, and the bullet had gone straight through, between his lower ribs. He didn’t think it had hit anything too important. He started to shrug, until his back muscles reminded him exactly how lacerated by rifle shot they were. He took a steadying breath and said, “I’ve had worse, but I need to get this long bandage tied against my back to slow the bleeding and I can’t quite…” he hated asking for help, but if Hardison didn’t do this, he wouldn’t make it to the van. Hardison gulped, then put his pack down, picked up the makeshift bandage, and draped it delicately over Eliot’s shoulders. Eliot grumbled, covering up the pain with a stiff, frustrated jerk of his shoulders to get it in place, then tied the longer sleeves of the shirts tight in front of him. He took the remaining shirt, folded it around his side, and pressed the entrance and exit wounds closed. He had to hold his breath, eyes closed for a moment as the room spun, but eventually the dizzying pain faded and he pushed to his feet. “Come on.”

They went as fast as Eliot could limp, avoiding the night-shift building personnel, and thankfully not running into any more former military mercenaries. When they got out of the building and made it to Lucille, Eliot fell to his knees in the back of the van, breathing hard. Parker traded him a gauze pad for the blood-soaked shirt, to press over the holes in his left side, gave him a bottle of water, and got to work cutting his shirt off of him.

He coughed, then growled, “I liked that shirt.”

“Really? You’ve been shot, and the thing you’re concerned about is messing up one of your many plaid shirts?” Hardison shook his head from the passenger seat while Nate drove. The hacker was already looking over the files he’d taken from the server on his laptop.

Eliot rolled his eyes. “Being shot doesn’t bother me, Hardison. I just got that shirt a couple weeks ago.”

“Well then I guess you shouldn’t have worn it on a job.”

“Well maybe if you had worked a little faster, we’d have gotten out of there, and my shirt— wouldn’t be confetti — right now.” As much as Eliot was enjoying their banter, he couldn’t quite catch his breath. He concentrated, looking inward at his body, and couldn’t hold back a grimace when he realized. “Parker — do you know how — to re-inflate a — collapsing lung?” He was getting weaker, and his vision was starting to blur and tunnel.

“What?!” Parker caught and steadied him when he started to slump to one side. He realized with some regret that he wouldn’t be able to talk her through it like he usually could. Vaguely, he heard everyone in the van arguing about whether to take him to the hospital.

“No hospital.” He managed to grunt. He dug in his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and handed it to Sophie. “Private doc — card — call her.” She started sorting through the few cards he had for his current alias, found the one business card he kept with him at all times, and called the number.

After a moment, Sophie looked at him worriedly. “She’s asking for a password or proof or…something.”

Eliot grimaced again, more out of embarrassment, and said, “Tell her — Wolfy — needs her.”

Sophie repeated that, then sighed with relief and started giving the doctor directions and her limited knowledge of Eliot’s condition. Eliot couldn’t quite hold on to consciousness, and he felt safe with his family around him, so he let himself slide into oblivion. He heard Parker’s alarmed voice, and felt her sharp little fingers gripping his shoulder, but he couldn’t drag himself back up to reassure her that he was fine. He just needed a little rest…

~  
Sophie and Parker watched Eliot’s glazed eyes slide all the way closed, his breathing — though still labored — evened out, and his body relaxed. Parker took over pressing the gauze against his side, and steadied him against the bumps in the road while Sophie continued talking to the doctor. When they got to the bar, Nate drove Lucille around to the back entrance, then he and Parker carried Eliot between them up to the apartment. The doctor arrived only a few minutes later.

Sophie let her in and led her to the guest room where they’d put Eliot. Parker had begun bandaging the deep laceration across his back. “This is Doctor Holly Yolen,” Sophie said.

Doctor Yolen sighed, “Oh Eliot,” when she saw the state their hitter was in, and immediately got to work. She helped Parker disinfect, then tape a large temporary bandage over his back, and then rolled him to lie flat. By this point he was wheezing, his body tense, lips tinged blue. Doctor Yolen listened to his chest, then drew out a rather large, nasty-looking hollow needle, pressed her gloved fingers down to count his ribs, and then pushed the needle between two ribs. She pulled the small cap off, pressing on the wound in his side as air audibly rushed from the needle. Eliot’s breathing eased almost immediately. “Okay, Parker, right?” the blond thief nodded hesitantly. “Hold this while I tape it in place.” She worked quickly and efficiently, taping the needle and setting up an IV line in the crook of his elbow. “I’m going to have to cut into him a bit to seal the holes in his pleural cavity, and then sew up from the inside out, but he might wake up. Sophie, if he does, can you keep him calm?”

“You think he’ll wake up in the middle of surgery?” Sophie asked doubtfully.

“Now that he can breathe? Yes. We’ve been in situations like this before, and believe me, you do not want to be in Eliot’s way when he wakes up without knowing where he is. He almost killed me last time.”

“And you still help him?” Parker asked, eying the doctor suspiciously.

“Of course.” Holly’s cheeks reddened in a blush. “We’ve been through too much for me to hold that kind of thing against him.”

Sophie hid a smile, wondering what sort of thing the good doctor did hold against Eliot. The woman was attractive, and they obviously had a history. But she didn’t mention any of that, saying instead, “I will do my best. I believe he does trust us to a point.”

“I think he trusts you more than he’s ever trusted anyone,” Holly said quietly, “for which I thank you.” She smiled, then changed her gloves, prepared her instruments on the bedside table, and got to work. She had Parker run for the boiled water that Hardison had been put in charge of — away from the sight or smell of blood. Nate was hovering nearby, but unable to do anything. He might be able to restrain a weakened Eliot if necessary, though that would be a last resort, since they knew how Eliot hated being restrained. Sophie stayed right there next to Eliot and Doctor Yolen, holding towels to catch the blood and wiping the sweat from the doctor’s forehead. The bullet had grazed his diaphragm and punctured his pleural cavity, which was the reason for his lung collapsing, so they had to keep reestablishing equal pressure so that his lung remained inflated. It was stressful, sweaty work.

After one especially bad scare where he stopped breathing completely for a few seconds, and Doctor Yolen fought to maintain the temporary seal and get him breathing again, he snapped to consciousness with a snarl and his hand flashed up to grab Sophie’s wrist. Sophie gasped, but didn’t forget her role. “Eliot,” she said in her most calming, soothing voice. “Eliot, it’s Sophie, you’re safe. Doctor Yolen is here. You know her. She’s patching you up. Do you hear me?”  
Gradually, the hitter’s glazed eyes cleared, he released Sophie’s wrist, and he shifted his gaze to the doctor, who had never stopped her work. Their eyes met for a split second, then Eliot relaxed and closed his eyes, though it was obvious he was still conscious. His breath caught a few times, and his hands would curl into fists and relax in a slow throb, but otherwise he didn’t react to the pain. Finally, she sewed him up completely, inserted a chest tube where the needle had been, and sat back with a sigh. “Done for now. I’m going to let you rest a bit before I sew up your back. Want something else for the pain?”

“What’d — give me?” Eliot grunted without opening his eyes.

“A mild anti-inflammatory. A little stronger than Ibuprofen, but no side effects.”

Eliot shook his head slightly, then opened his eyes to slits, regarding the doctor for a long moment. “Blood?”

“I have a saline drip going, and I brought some blood. It’s safe, and your type.”

“Shock?” he asked. Sophie didn’t quite understand, but Doctor Yolen nodded.

“Going in to hypovolemic shock is a risk, since you lost so much. But I know you don’t like strange blood. You want it?”

Eliot gave the barest nod. “S’ok,” he slurred. His mouth curved up into a weak smile. “Thanks, doc…” His features gradually went slack, and then he was truly asleep.

Sophie let out a breath and sank into a chair next to the bed. Doctor Yolen finished hooking up a pouch of blood to his IV, then slumped onto the chair next to that one, stripping off the bloodied gloves and then burying her face in her hands.

“Are you all right?” Sophie asked.

“I hate seeing him like this,” the doctor whispered, “I always think it won’t be so bad the next time. And I’m always wrong.”

“We never see him…like this.” Sophie gave a helpless gesture towards the prone hitter, her eyes misting. “He’s always so tough. He— he almost never shows us that he’s even hurting.”

“We’ll have to show him that it’s okay,” Nate said from his position in the corner. “He thinks he has to hide it so that we don’t doubt his ability to protect us, but we need to show him that we can help him without thinking he’s weak.”

“You want my advice?”

“Yes, Doctor Yolen?”

“Please, Doctor Yolen was my father. Call me Holly. In my experience, Eliot deals better with tough love. Let him make his own decisions about medications and further treatment — he knows his own body best — but he will try to over-exert himself before he’s ready, and you have to be firm.”

“I’ll poke him.” Parker had stationed herself just inside the door for most of the procedure. “That’s how I know if he’s okay. And Hardison can put a TV in here that plays football. He won’t get out of bed then.” The little thief looked fierce, and stalked forward to inflict her glare on the sleeping hitter, seemingly determined to keep him in that bed by sheer force of will. Holly looked a bit alarmed and slid a look towards Sophie, but Sophie just gave an indulgent smile and shook her head slightly, telling Holly it was alright.

“Well…good.” The doctor let out a thin laugh. “He’ll probably appreciate that.” She sighed, looking at him again with a rather wistful expression. “I’ll let him sleep for an hour, then clean his back and sew that one up too.” She shook her head. “The idiot. How did this happen anyway?”

Parker scowled. “Hardison was writing a virus to hurt our mark, and some military guys found them. Eliot took out all of them, but they tried to shoot Hardison, so he got shot instead.”

Sophie took a small breath, and reached out to touch Holly’s arm lightly. “Why don’t we go have a little something to eat. I know we have leftovers from the meal Eliot cooked last night. We’ll leave him to rest, and check on our young hacker, shall we?”

Holly recognized the tone of voice that con artists used to get people to do what they wanted — Eliot had used it before on her, before they knew each other very well. However, despite wanting to stay at Eliot’s side, she could tell that Sophie meant well, so she let herself be led into the kitchen, sat down at the table, and served a meal easily ten times better than any restaurant food she’d had in a year. Hardison, the young hacker who’d looked positively green at the sight of all that blood on Eliot, was sulking at the table, clicking away on his computer and chugging orange soda like his life depended on it. Parker draped herself over his shoulders, distracting him while Sophie took the orange soda out of his hand, replaced it with a fork, and set a plate of food in front of him.

“Guys, guys, I’m not hungry. Seriously, did you see the amount of blood Eliot had all over him? I’m not gonna be able to eat for a week. No sir! Besides, I have to get this info dump sorted out. No rest for the weary I mean…what?” Everyone was staring at him. “Do I got somethin’ on my face?”

“Everyone knows you feel guilty about Eliot getting hurt, silly,” Parker said, still with an arm across his shoulders.

Sophie picked up the thread of what Parker was trying to say, “But what you have to remember is that it’s his job, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. Yeah, he got shot, but he got the job done. And it’s really not that bad. Right?” She turned to Holly.

Holly hesitated, unsure how this ‘reassurance’ thing worked with this group. “Well…it’s not good, exactly, but I suppose he’ll be on his feet in a week, if not to fighting strength.”

Sophie nodded, and patted Hardison’s arm. “Eat something, darling. He’ll be fine.”

Hardison sighed, and started picking at his food. With that, the rest of the team settled a bit, and Holly relaxed enough to enjoy her own meal.

~  
A little over an hour later, Holly, Parker, Sophie, and Nate returned to Eliot’s room. He was still asleep. Holly stepped forward a bit, but remained a generous five feet from the bed, out of Eliot’s reach. “Eliot,” she called in a gentle, even-toned voice, “Eliot, can you hear me?”

He’d already been lying still, but now his body stilled, the visible muscles of his chest and arms tensing and defined for an instant before he relaxed again. His eyes opened, and he turned his head slightly to lock gazes with Holly. Her heart skipped a beat at the danger radiating from him. He seemed relaxed, weak even, but she knew that if he decided he didn’t want to be in that bed, he’d be out of it and out the door in seconds. The wolf was very near the surface. It thrilled a part of Holly that she’d been denying for years. That danger. That risk of getting close to him. She mentally shook herself. “I need to see to your back. It won’t be fun, and I’m sorry, but it’s already been too long. You don’t want an infection on top of everything.”

Eliot nodded. “Go ahead.” His voice was rough and breathless, barely more than a rasp.

Holly waited one moment longer, then beckoned the team forward. “Nate, I need you to support his shoulders. Parker, his hips, we can’t let his torso twist at all, or his lung might collapse again. On my count, we roll him right. Sophie, stay in front of him, remind him what I’m doing. He’s going to go in and out, and might wake up fighting. Don’t stop talking to him.” The doctor laid out her tools, checked Eliot’s general condition, breathing, and pulse, and then arranged him to be rolled, lifting his legs and folding his arms out of the way. Then she had Nate take his shoulders, and Parker his hips, and on her count, they rolled him onto his right side.

Eliot couldn’t help the ragged groan that escaped him. He’d had time for the adrenaline to wear off completely, and the painkiller she gave him only did so much. His side was a sharp, throbbing mass of pain radiating out across his torso, his lung felt fragile, and the deep groove carved into his back burned and snatched what little breath he had away. He knew, logically, that Holly was back there, pouring liquid fire over the open gouge to clean it, then pricking and tugging as she sewed the shredded edges closed. However, it felt like a very distinctive style of torture in Siberia, and took all his self-control to focus on Sophie’s soothing voice, and not jump up and tear out of the room as fast as he could.

Sophie talked to him. She kept his eyes on her, despite the fear and pain and raw, animal rage she saw in them. She couldn’t help the tears when he groaned, his deep voice grating and breathless. But she kept talking. She told him a story about her favorite Paris trip, when she’d conned a super model shoe designer into selling her five pairs of $1500 shoes, for $15 each. She actually saw his mouth twitch into a smile at that one.

Finally, Holly tied off the last stitch, put a padded bandage over the long wound, and then had Nate and Parker carefully roll Eliot to his back again. He growled a curse, his gaze hazy and unfocused, and sucked in as full a breath as he could get. With that, his eyes rolled back, and he was out again.

Holly sighed, stepping back. “Okay, we’re done, but I’m going to have to keep an eye on him.”

“You can stay here,” Nate said, his eyes on Eliot. “Everyone else does.” Holly thought she heard a bit of fond annoyance in his tone, but just thanked him and asked if she could stay in the room with Eliot. Nate smiled as if he’d expected nothing less, and had Parker and Hardison bring in a twin mattress for her. “We still have some work to do,” he told her, “But you can stay in here and rest. Thank you, doctor.”


End file.
